


Sixty Four

by YaelaTheWordsmith



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Lil bit of sci fi, Nostalgia, Oneshot, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 08:24:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16036667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YaelaTheWordsmith/pseuds/YaelaTheWordsmith
Summary: A snatch of song on an ordinary day, and suddenly it's harder than Daichi thought it would be to keep it together - even though he's gotten used to seeing the face of the unreachable, untouchable love of his life every day.A dash of sci-fi, aged up characters, and tragedy.





	Sixty Four

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a combination of reading fractalbright's lovely AOT fic distortedly,yours and the song 'When I'm Sixty Four'running through my head because we're practicing it for choir. I recommend you listen to it once first, Kind Reader. :)
> 
> (I assume Daichi (birthday 31/12) is a day older than Asahi (birthday 1/1), not an entire year younger, and definitely older than Kuroo (birthday 17/11) )

 

_ “When I get older, losing my hair . . .” _

Daichi blinks awake, sleep receding in a gentle wave. The curtain are pulled apart just so, letting warm sunlight stream over the bed, and the familiar tune washes over him, transporting him back to years ago in a matter of seconds.

_ “Many years from now . . .” _

A quiet thump as something is set down on the dresser, the rattle of ceramic cups and small, silvered spoons. Daichi mouths the next words almost unconsciously, blank eyes on the muted orange curtains.

_ (‘They’ll make it look warm and homey, Daichi - especially since you decided our room would be fine with just plain white walls. Honestly, the sheer lack of taste you have is unbelievable.’)  _

_ “Will you still be sending me a valentine . . .”  _

He squeezes his eyes shut against the memories - a pink tongue sticking out teasingly, brown eyes sparkling, that half smile that blossomed into a delighted grin so easily -  and begins to get up, groaning softly when his back twinges in protest.

The song stops immediately, and warm hands are on his shoulders, easing him up.

“Good morning, Daichi. How are you feeling today?”

He looks up into dark eyes and pale skin, a beauty spot and a sweep of silver hair across the forehead, and swallows the quiet pain easily. It’s become second nature, now.

“Well enough, Koushi. Could you help me to the bathroom? And the kitchen, after I’m done with the hot chocolate.”

“Of course, Daichi.”

It’s maybe half an hour later that Daichi is sitting at the dining table, his hands curled around a cup of steaming coffee. Koushi had handed it to him almost absently, two spoons of sugar and a dash of milk mixed in perfectly. Effortlessly.

_ (‘Sacrilege, that’s what it is. The only coffee worth drinking is pure black - don’t you make that face at me!’) _

Suga would have said that. Suga would have protested, teased him mercilessly, refused to add any sugar at all until Daichi caught him by the waist, pressed him against the counter, kissed him until he melted - and then again until the coffee was abandoned without a second thought. They’d come back later to find it stone cold and undrinkable, and of course Suga would blame him for that, pouting like a five year old while his eyes danced.

_ “ . . . would you lock the door? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty four?” _

Daichi sips the coffee, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. Yet it doesn’t quite counteract the small, cold pit in his stomach, and he contemplates telling Koushi to stop singing - or at least to pick a different song. Chances are, though, if he did, Koushi would pick something silly, like Crazy in Love - he’s had an unaccountable liking for that song, of late, and if he sang that -

Daichi knows his cheeks are going red, he can feel it, and he hurriedly sips again, firmly pushing away the memory of what he and Suga were doing the first time he heard that song.

_ (‘You have to admit it does kind of suit the mood.’  _

_ “Oh, my g- Suga, it most certainly does not!’ _

_ ‘I’ll have to go and thank you neighbours for it later.’ _

_ ‘ . . . devil.’  _

_ A cheeky look, pink cheeks, still panting above him, chest rising and falling like an ocean Daichi can drown in - does drown in - over and over and over again. _

 

_ ‘Angel.’ _

 

_ And again.) _

The pan sizzles as Koushi slips a spatula under the egg, sliding it off, being careful not to break the yolk. Two slices of bread, a knife and cheese, and then he’s waiting politely by Daichi’s chair, calm as a mountain lake.

“Will you be needing anything else, Daichi?”

“No, I don’t think so. Start with the garden before you sweep, will you?”

“Of course.”

Koushi slips on bright red gardening gloves - Suga’s beloved gardening gloves - and heads outside, clippers in one hand, trowel in the other. Daichi watches him go, hears the song start again, hears it float in through the open window.

_ “Doing the garden, digging the weeds . . .” _

And he can’t resist it any longer. He’s swept back to his twentieth birthday, his twenty-third, his thirty-fifth, his thirty-ninth -

_ (‘Mine forevermore,’ Suga sings, a soft murmur against his lips. All Daichi can taste is cake cream, sugary and oversweet; all he can smell is sputtering candles, melting wax, Suga’s cologne - _

_ ‘Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?’ _

_ \- and all he can see is Suga, still beautiful with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and fading hair. _

_ ‘Of course,’ he breathes, resting his forehead against Suga’s. ‘Always.’  _

_ And Suga smiles back, eyes deep and dark and overflowing with love.) _

Daichi blinks, wiping away a lone tear that’s trickled down his cheek.

_ “Will you still be sending me a - will you still be sending me a - will you still be sending me a -” _

He sighs, gets up slowly, sticks his head out of the window. “Koushi,” he calls. “Come in, please.”

Koushi walks in abashed, head hanging. He hates it more than anything when he fails in a function, any function at all - even if it’s something as minor as singing a song he knows Daichi likes.

“It’s okay. Just stand in your charging port for a bit, will you? That usually helps.”

He doesn’t even vocalize an affirmative, just nods and walks away, steps dragging. Daichi sighs again, rubbing a hand over his face before he reaches out and touches the first number on speed dial on the videophone. 

The screen springs to life, hologram projecting solid light into the air. The voxels shimmer, blur, and then compose themselves into Kuroo Tetsurou’s yawning form.

“Mornin’, Daichi,” he says sleepily. “Wasn’t expecting a call, something wrong?”

“Hey.” Daichi swallows, making sure his voice doesn’t wobble. “No, it’s just that Koushi needs a checkup.”

“Yeah? What’s the problem?”

“He’s been forgetting more often that usual, vocal function getting stuck, random loss of motor control - the usual.”

“Mhm. He’s, what, at least twenty years old?”

“Twenty four.”

“RIght. Well, it’s probably the usual, like you say. Bring him in whenever you like, I’ll let Futakuchi know.”

“Thanks, I’ll send him in by tomorrow. Were you working the whole night, by the way?”

“Yep. We’re on the verge of a breakthrough with constructing the first accurate, viable empathy program - or so Matsukawa says. He’s been driving us like dogs.”

“Retire already, why don’t you? Leave the revolutions to the younger generation. Besides, you can’t pull that hairstyle off with white hair. I mean, it’s not like you could with black either, but -”

“Oh, lay off,” Kuroo says lazily. “Like you have a strand of black hair left. Besides, I’m only sixty three, you know. Nobuhiko is still active, and she’s seventy five.”

“The mother of the robotics revolution gets a free pass, Tetsu. You don’t.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll retire when I’m seventy, Sawamura, and not a moment before.”

Daichi shakes his head. “At least get some sleep.”

“I’m going, I’m going. God, you’re worse than Kenma. Okay, so send Koushi in, I’ll make sure I’m there myself, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Cool. Oh, Daichi -” Tetsurou hesitates, pauses in the motion of breaking the contact. “Happy birthday.” 

Daichi swallows again, harder than before, pushing it all down. “Thanks.”

He can see a glimmer of sorrowful understanding in Tetsurou’s eyes, even through the hologram, just before it fizzles out. He stays still, staring at the place where the image had been projected, clenching his fists desperately.

But he can’t, he never can withstand it. It breaks over him, a flood of sorrow and nostalgia and  _ I miss you I miss you I miss you _ resounding through his heart, pounding into his aching body with pain that hardly seems to diminish, year after year.

At least no one but Koushi will ever know how he spent the morning sobbing quietly into the table. But he gets up, eventually, wipes his tears, washes the dishes, opens the curtains, smiles at Koushi when he’s done charging, reassures him, and . . . gets on with his day.

It’s what Suga would have wanted, after all.

And this will happen again next year, he knows, every year from now, it’ll happen even when he can’t remember Suga’s voice or the colour of his hair or how they both clung to Asahi, sobbing, after Nationals. But he takes solace in the fact that even if he ends up unable to remember anything about Suga at all, there will come a time when he will lie under the earth as well, cold and quiet, and when that time comes, when his mind and heart and soul end up somewhere brighter and bigger than this world -

\- Suga will be the first one to greet him, smiling like they’ve never been parted.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> writing blog and main blog ^.^


End file.
